Art Thieves Make Commissions Too
by TehOpheliac
Summary: Dean/Castiel — Dean's job is relatively simple. Steal original famous art, sell it for big bucks don't get caught! , waste 2/3rds of the cash improving his brother's life, rinse, and repeat.


**Title:** Art Thieves Make Commissions Too  
**Author: **TehOpheliac  
**Rating:** R  
**Pairing:** Dean/Castiel | 1,111 words  
**Summary:** Dean's job is relatively simple. Steal original [famous] art, sell it for big bucks (don't get caught!), waste 2/3rds of the cash improving his brother's life, rinse, and repeat.

**Notes:** I wrote this on Twitter for the April Twitfic challenge. Obviously it got a little out of control — I didn't intend to write so much but I just couldn't seem to stop! xD I think I should expand on this AU universe. What do you think? :D

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Dean's job is relatively simple. Steal original [famous] art, sell it for big bucks (don't get caught!), waste 2/3rds of the cash improving his brother's life, rinse, and repeat.

So, when the day he's unable to bring himself to actually steal artwork arrives, it comes as a complete shock to him — and, yeah, maybe Dean does have a mid-life crisis afterwards. After all, there's nothing particularly special about the art. It's neither spectacular or horrible. In fact, nothing about it even stands out — except for how it does. To Dean.

Dean can't explain it, but something about Jimmy Novak's artwork calls out to him — has, in fact, since it first caught his eye at an art gallery months ago. Novak isn't very well known. Even the most die-hard art critiques haven't heard of him... and yet, Dean can't stop thinking about the art.

It's a simple painting of two men sitting on nearby benches, backs facing the audience, as they gaze into the setting sun at a park. That's it. It's neither detailed or lacking, there's no specific realism to it, and there definitely isn't any emotional significance in it. In fact, it feels almost mechanical, too technical down to it's core... and yet, at the same time, it somehow feels _familiar._

"Fuck," Dean mutters to himself, burying his face into the palms of his hands. Here he is, standing around in some mediocre artist's crappy apartment, getting a conscious. What a great time to finally develop some morals. "I'm so screwed."

As if these are the magic words, Dean hears the sound of bare feet slapping against the tiles and whips around to face the intruder. Or, well, in this case, Dean's the real intruder and the guy — Novak, probably — is the one who lives here. "Double fuck."

Novak steps into the light, looking rumpled and — holy shit — like an _angel_. His dark hair is mussed and light stubble is growing on his chin. The light from the bedroom is spread out behind him, casting a glare to the back of his head and giving him a halo. For a split second, Dean thinks he even sees _wings_ in the shadows, but he blinks and the apparition is gone.

Dean's frozen in place, eyes wide, as he stares at Novak. He's never been caught red-handed before. Sure, he'd come close a few times, but it had never actually happened — until now. Novak surveys the scene with keen, intelligent eyes and a stoic expression. Dean doesn't know what to say, what to think, even. Usually he's pretty quick on his feet, but there's something about this painting, this place, this _guy_ that keeps him still, transfixed, gaping.

Novak does something Dean doesn't expect. He cocks his head to the side, nods at the painting, and smiles (well, Dean _thinks_ it's a smile, but it looks more like a grimace). "Do you want it?" he asks, his deep, gravely voice sending shivers down the thief's spine. Dean nods once, almost against his will. "Then keep it."

Dean flinches like he's been shot. "You're giving it to _me_?" he chokes, staring at Novak like he's just threatened to slaughter his entire family. "When I'm here to steal it?!"

The artist pursues his lips and steps closer to Dean, invading his personal space (and making his heart race), as he furrows his brows. Novak appears to be examining Dean, as though attempting to understand him, but it feels more like he's trying to read Dean's soul. "I am not well-known, my paintings are of little worth," he says eventually.

Dean says nothing because it's true. Keeping one eye on Novak, he steps back, away from the strange man, and picks up the painting. "There's something familiar about it," he says by way of explanation, almost apologetically.

Novak inclines his head and remains silent, but his eyes have sparked with interest and Dean can practically read the questions in them. It's time to go.

Dean picks up the painting, glances nervously at Novak, and places it in a protective casing. "Uh, thanks," he says, hardly daring to believe that's it's really going to be this easy.

It's not. The next thing he knows, Dean's being pressed up against a nearby wall and Novak's firm body is being pressed against his own. "It is not free," the artist breathes, his intense blue eyes dropping momentarily to gaze at Dean's mouth before flicking back up. He licks his lips and Dean suppresses a groan of need. Fuck it.

The kiss is wet and messy, but the pace is slow, exploring, like this is Novak's first time and he's taking his time mapping out the inside of Dean's mouth. Dean doesn't have any such reserves. He kisses back with equal intensity, running his tongue along the artist's smooth teeth and the roof of his mouth, tasting him, breathing him in. When Novak finally pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire and dilated. He's panting, hands resting firmly on Dean's waist, unwilling to touch more intimately without explicit permission, but unable to stop all the same.

The fog in Dean's head clears when Novak detaches himself and gives him an expression that somehow smugly satisfied and completely poker-faced all at once. "There's an ongoing collection," he says, his voice rough with lust, nodding towards the painting Dean had completely forgotten about. "You can... purchase another tomorrow." Novak gives up all pretenses and openly stares at Dean's lips as he speaks. "Or you may make an advanced payment."

Dean grins at him, stepping closer to drop a soft kiss to his unresisting lips and cup the back of his neck. "An advance, Novak?"

"Castiel," He interjects abruptly, his lips turned down at the corners. "Jimmy Novak is a pseudonym."

For a moment, Dean thinks Novak — Castiel is fucking with him (and not in the good way!). It sounds like the names should be switched, that Castiel's the pseudonym, but he catches a glimpse of an earnest expression on the artist's face and just goes with it. "Cas," Dean purrs. "How much would it cost to commission you?"

Dean doesn't give him the chance to respond. His roving hands slide down the small of Castiel's back and grip his ass, kneading the firm flesh with unfettered attention. The stuttered, breathy noise he receives in response is answer enough. "You're right, Cas. We can negotiate a price later."

As Dean backs Castiel towards the bedroom, the artist pulls him in for a ferocious kiss and his nimble fingers begin to eagerly undo his belt-buckle. Dean foresees his immediate future filled with unending commissioned art by his new favorite artist.


End file.
